The Personification That Came in From the Cold
by Igorina
Summary: When Pollution finds himself incapacitated due to the rash actions of a young environmentalist, it’s down to Aziraphale and a very reluctant Crowley to dispense help and comfort. Features Crowley x Aziraphale x Pollution.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or settings to be found herein.

A/N: This is the fic I wrote for GO Exchange, for which I was given the prompt 'Crowley/Aziraphale/Pollution with hurt/comfort'. A big thank you goes to Vulgarweed for being a wonderful beta reader.

-

It all began with the protest.

Well… no, this wasn't exactly true. The _actual_ beginning occurred on a bright, exceptionally smoggy Wednesday in the 1930s when the anthropomorphic personification known as Pestilence took a long, hard look as his recent accomplishments and decided to call it day as far as Apocalyptical Horsepersoning went. However, it was fair to say that what would later be referred to as _The Situation_ and eventually, after several months, as _The Relationship_, really began to take shape the day over two-thousand members of SOW (Save Our Woodlands) stood between the bulldozers of Wilks, Pallister & Bridges and the unspoilt greenery of Horatio's Copse.

It was not a large protest by any means. Just a group of rather angry citizens from the North Cambridgeshire area who were deeply distressed at the thought of a beloved little local arbour being obliterated to make way for a new _Out of Town Leisure Complex_ ('Leisure Complex' in this instance meaning a cinema, a bowling alley and a Burger Lord). Nor was it deemed important enough to be widely covered by the national media, with only a lone camera man from the BBC's regional programming department showing up to take thirty seconds of footage, and a few reporters from the local rags jotting down quotes from the protesters and developers in the vain hope that one of them might say something vaguely salacious. However, as far as the three teenagers who'd caught the bus over from Lower Tadfield earlier that morning were concerned, it was _important_. This was especially true for the boy with the mussed dark brown hair, ancient looking jeans and grubby t-shirt, who had many fond memories of the tree swing that he and his cousins had built from the largest oak in the wood when they were twelve.

"They don't look too friendly," said Brian, gesturing to the stony faced security personnel who were standing beside the stationary earth moving equipment, before conscientiously adding: "The planet raping bastards."

"That's because they're not," said Pepper, trying to hoist her end of the _Trees Not Skittles_ banner as high as she could. Wensleydale, who was two inches shorter, yelped as the end he was holding almost slipped from his grasp.

"Careful," said Brian, helping his friends steady the banner. "What I meant is that they look even worse than that lot who were doing the Dellton Bypass."

"Is that the one where you both got arrested?" asked Wensleydale, who was slightly newer to Cambridgeshire conservational activism than his two friends.

"No, that was the one where we were demonstrating against Chemipharm International pumping industrial waste into the River Mottle," he replied. "We didn't even mean to trash the managing director's car; it was just that we accidentally dropped one of the placards and smashed the windscreen, but they said that…." He trailed off as something – or rather _somebody_ - caught his eye.

An extremely pale young man dressed in white overalls and a white hard hat standing to the side of one of the more monstrous looking diggers. With his pale skin, slender form and shoulder length white hair, he did not fit congruously amongst the surly security guards, weathered workmen and pinched-faced middle-aged clipboard-wavers. Yet, despite possessing a visage that should have been instantly striking, there was something about the figure that seemed to induce one's gaze and mind to pass over him. At least, this was what part of Brian's brain seemed to want to do. However, there was also something about him that caused another part of Brian's mind to sound a mental warning bell.

"Hey, is it just me or is their something familiar about that man?" he said, gesturing to the figure.

"I dunno." Pepper shrugged; a movement that once again very nearly destabilised Wensley's grip on the placard, before redirecting her attention swiftly back to the other violators of all that was good and green. "I recognise the guy standing next to the bloke in the orange jacket," she said. "He works for Rentahit Security. Broke Marvin Hall's wrist at the Chemipharm demonstration, I think. And the woman in the blue suit works for Dellton Council. I think there was some embezzlement scandal she was involved in a few years ago, but there wasn't enough evidence to prosecute."

As Pepper continued to identify and recount the crimes of the various members of 'The Opposition', Brian found himself trying to keep his focus fixed on the man in white. He was not quite sure why, but the mental warning bell seemed to be getting louder and louder. 'Not quite sure why', that was, until the figure gave what looked like a wide, blissful smile, reached into the pocket of his overalls and removed a metal cylinder.

Brian gave a loud yelp.

"What the hell are you doing?" Pepper cried out in alarm as he tore away from the crowd of protestors and hurtled himself in the direction of the man in white.

"Teargas!" Brian yelled, without a backwards glance. "It's a teargas canister."

Around half a second before making contact with the young man, Brian registered the sudden look of recognition, fear and alarm in his grey eyes.

By that time, however, it was too late to prevent what happened next.

It was, when all was said and done, a simple matter of opposites coming into contact.

Had any other sixteen year old boy careered into the slender form of Blanco White in an attempt to wrest the canister of teargas from the Assistant Deputy Site Manager's hand, it would have led to a scuffle much like any other, with said boy finding his target slipping out of his grasp and his skin afflicted with a strange rash or two for a few weeks.

However, the fact that the boy called Brian had, just over five years earlier, vanquished the personification of environmental decimation with the aid of a few well-chosen twigs, gave the whole thing a symbolic, yet very real and potent charge.

In short: Pollution and Anti-Pollution collided.

When later questioned about what happened most of those present would describe what happened as being 'like an explosion… but without any fire or smoke'; in response to which those emergency service personnel who arrived on the scene to take the injured and catatonic boy with the dark brown hair to the nearest hospital, would conclude that some form of mass hysteria was taking place.

Nobody noticed what happened to the pale young man. Even when staggering from the scene clutching his stomach, wearing a pained expression and pausing every few minutes to double over and retch-up the toxic contents of his stomach onto the ground, he just wasn't the sort to draw the eye.

----------

It was half past six on a wet Monday evening in Soho, and Aziraphale was dithering over whether to make the long journey to Balham to deliver the spark of divine inspiration to a middle-aged housewife that he'd been putting off all week (divine ecstasy was one thing, but divine inspiration was always rather tricky to get right, one really didn't after all want Sistine Chapels springing up all over the place), or go and visit old Mrs Brentworth who lived in the flat above the _Pleasure Island Adult Toy Emporium_ three doors down from the bookshop. Mrs. Brentwoth wasn't on his official 'Old Aged Pensioners to Comfort' list, but was always a delightful conversationalist and very well up on all the latest gossip as to what was going on around the area. In the end a crack of thunder, followed by the intensification of the rain against the window finally tipped the scales in favour of letting divine inspiration wait for another day.

On the antiquated television set the angel kept in the back room, the evening news was coming to a close, with the presenter going over the day's less significant stories, such as the couple who'd found a large cache of Roman coins in their back garden, the recapture of a convicted armed robber who'd absconded from a low security prison in Scotland and the boy from Cambridgeshire who'd made a remarkable bordering on miraculous recovery from the serious – yet deeply peculiar – case of poisoning he'd sustained a week ago at a local environmental protest, and was now being released from the isolation ward.

As the credits began to roll Aziraphale blinked and the television turned itself off. He then exchanged his favourite tartan slippers for his second favourite pair of brown loafers and his cardigan for a coat and stepped out of the back room and into the shop proper. Much to his chagrin, a man in a pinstriped suit was peering through the glass of the front window. Aziraphale instantly recognised him as the gentleman who'd been stopping by at the shop at frequent intervals over the last couple of weeks in the obvious hope that he'd catch it during one of its sporadic opening hours. Some people just couldn't take 'we're closed for refurbishment' as an answer.

Deciding that he didn't want to come into direct contact with any would be customers, the angel quickly retreated to the back room and – rather guiltily – wished a door out onto the back alley behind the shop into existence. As he stepped out of the large, yet tasteful, oak door (taking care to banish it from existence once he was through) and out into the downpour he couldn't help but notice that the alley was rather more littered, vandalised and foul smelling that usual. It had never been the most pleasant of cut throughs, but Aziraphale had always tried to keep the place from lapsing into this sort of state. Making a mental note to do something about the mess when it wasn't quite so cold and wet, the angel began to walk in the direction of _Pleasure Island_.

After a few steps however he became uncomfortably aware that he was not the only entity of a non-mortal persuasion in the immediate vicinity. There was, for want of a better word, a _presence_ around: it definitely wasn't angelic, and he was almost sure it wasn't demonic, but there was something oddly familiar about it all the same; and it seemed to be… well, it was hard to mentally put it into words, but 'muted', 'damaged' and 'hurting' were probably the adjectives that closest described the sense he was getting from whatever it was.

Involuntarily swallowing in what wasn't _quite_ fear, but was a level of unease that came fairly close, the angel peered into the dark corners and shadows of the poorly illuminated alley. Aziraphale really didn't want to risk being discorporated by a hostile entity. Returning to Heaven could very well mean having to stand in front of several key Seraphim and account for his behaviour during Apocalypse That Wasn't: and even if Gabriel et al were of a mind to overlook his somewhat unorthodox actions and send him back to his earthly post, there was a good chance that he'd find his collection stock distressingly depleted on recorporation. However, the fact was that he just wasn't the sort of chap who could easily walk on by when he came across a being in this kind of distress – even if, as an angel, it was only technically mandated that he minister to human suffering alone. Eventually, his gaze fell upon a huddled form, crouched between two large wheelie bins belonging to the pizzeria two doors down from the book shop. Tentatively, he moved closer to the figure, which seemed to be clothed in a just a thin, torn and extremely soiled one-piece and was shivering terribly.

As he approached, a pair of grey eyes set in a pale, grimy face looked up to regard him.

Recognition instantly dawned as the creature's gaze met his own.

"You!" He instinctively took a step backwards, gripped by a stab of panic at what terrible things the youngest of the Four might be planning to do to his corpus or his books in retaliation for his role in averting Armageddon now that he was quite obviously back from the collective human unconscious to which he'd been banished. However, as Pollution continued to stare at him in a manner best described as vacant, it became increasingly evident that the personification didn't seem to have any immediate plans to cause harm to the angel or his precious texts, or at least any plans to cause harm to the angel or his precious texts that he was currently capable of acting upon.

"Erm… are you all right?" he asked, aware that the answer to this question was quite obviously in the negative, but not sure quite what else to say.

"No," the personification responded, with a cough. "I think I'm hurt." Rather than the breathy voice with which Pollution had spoken on the three occasions the angel had previously been unfortunate enough to come into contact with him, the entity was now wheezing out his words.

"What on earth happened to you?" Once again, the angel knew that this was probably not the most sensible question to ask; however, as no _sensible_ questions were likely to exist for such a situation he decided to go with it anyway.

"The boy."

"You mean young Adam?" Aziraphale's eyes widened, at once rather worried that the Antichrist was back to the near-cataclysmic the mood swings that had signalled his entry into adolescence three years previously.

"No, the other boy. The child who sent me away."

The angel's brow furrowed. "The one that sent you…?" He trailed off as realisation dawned. "Are you talking about Adam's friend?"

"Yes." The personification gave a snort that sounded to be one-quarter ironic amusement and three-quarters bitterness. "The one that should have been me."

"Oh… er…." Flailing a little, Aziraphale searched for a response. "How exactly did he do _this_ to you?"

"He touched me."

He frowned. "I'm not sure I follow."

"The boy came into contact with me and, because of what Adam Young made him into during our last encounter, he was my antithesis."

"Oh." _Oh dear_, this really was unprecedented. "So this contact diminished you somehow?"

The personification coughed. It was a prolonged, hacking cough that in a human would hint at moderate to severe lung damage. "When we clashed there was a great release of force and something was unwillingly exchanged between us."

Something clicked in the angel's mind as he recalled one of the less globally significant but still deeply curious stories that had been in the news media of late. "Would I be right to assume that the young man in question was the one who had to be quarantined after he started sweating arsenic and breathing out carbon monoxide?"

"He took something from me and I took something from him," the personification said, in a voice that would have been singsong if he hadn't been rasping so much. "What I took from him doesn't like the rest of me though."

As Pollution hugged his knees closer to his chest, realisation finally dawned on the angel. "You've become allergic to yourself, haven't you?"

The personification did not respond, choosing instead to curl up even further into himself, in what was clearly an ineffectual attempt to preserve the body heat that had never been of any consequence to him before.

Being a being of the world, Aziraphale also recognised another, rather more calculated, level to the action. It was the kind of gesture that humans frequently used to evoke sympathy and comfort: and Pollution was employing it in a rather obvious manner. However, in addition to being a being of the world, the angel was also an angel of the world, and it really was a sight to tug at the heart strings.

After a moment of indecision Aziraphale spoke again. "Look, it's awfully cold out here, why don't you come inside."

For a moment the grey eyes merely stared at him. Then the personification gave a small groan and began to rise to his feet, his movements stiff and pained. Despite the deep aversion he felt towards the idea of touching him, Aziraphale nevertheless found himself offering a tentative hand, which Pollution took with an expression of mild relief. The Horseman's hand was clammy and greasy, but the experience of coming into contact with it was not quite as revolting as Aziraphale had imagined it would be. Still, he couldn't help but cringe when, after three steps, the entity slumped against him; filthy, matted hair pressing against his shoulder and grimy overalls rubbing against his old but scrupulously clean coat, as Pollution grabbed onto the angel in an attempt to steady himself.

It was just fifteen metres from the spot where Pollution had been slumped between the huge waste receptacles and back wall of Aziraphale's shop, but it took the angel several minutes to haul him over to the re-materialised door to the back-room (which for reasons unknown to the angel this time took the form of a distressingly pink, plywood affair). Once inside he hastily willed a thick, industrially reinforced PVC dustcover onto his armchair and ushered the personification into it, whereupon he banished as much of the entity's residue from his clothing as possible and then reached for the telephone he kept on one of the side tables. Before he could lay a hand on the ancient device however, it began to ring.

"Hello, Fell's Second Hand Books," he said, hoping that it wouldn't be the unwanted customer he'd just been trying to avoid. He had done just about everything he could to keep the number ex-directory, but a few tenacious would-be purchasers had managed to get hold of it in the past.

_"It's me,"_ said a young, male and very easily recognisable voice on the other end.

"Hello Adam, I was just about to call—"

_"I know."_

The angel's eyes widened in surprise. "You did?"

_"And I know what you're about to ask."_

"You do?"

_"I won't help him, Aziraphale. He hurt my friend."_ The boy's voice was resolute in the sullen and defiant way only a sixteen year old's could be. _"He can wait to get better by himself._

"Adam, I understand that…." He trailed off as the line went dead. "Oh dear." With an apprehensive sigh he turned his attention back to Pollution who, to the angel's utter horror, was inspecting the objects on the table next to the armchair and putting his soiled fingers dangerously close to the copy of _Dorian Gray_ resting there. Acting quickly, the angel banished the book back to its usual place on the shelves.

"That was Adam Young," he said, willing several other items within the personification's immediate vicinity out of his reach.

"I know," Pollution said, with another embittered little snort. "He's not going to return me to my original state, is he?"

"I'm afraid he's still rather angry about the injuries his friend suffered as a result of your little accident."

For several deeply uncomfortable moments a tense silence settled between them. Aziraphale dearly hoped that the personification wouldn't suddenly decide that the best way to vent his distress at the situation was to do something unpleasant to him or his books. Pollution however eventually settled for slumping back into the plasticized armchair and huddling in on himself.

"I don't know what to do," the entity said, voice distant.

"Don't give up hope," said the angel in what he hoped were comforting tones. "Adam seemed to suggest that you might recover on your own, without his intervention."

"Recover on my own?" Pollution repeated the words slowly, as if they didn't quite make sense. "How will I do that?"

"I'm not quite certain," Aziraphale answered truthfully. "However, I imagine that it would be similar to the way that humans heal."

"What will I do until I'm 'healed'? It's so cold out there," said Pollution with a shudder, before adding: "I've never been cold before."

The angel sighed; this really wasn't his area of expertise. "I suppose you could try resting somewhere warm and comfortable and… and… well, if you were a human I would suggest drinking lots of fluids, but I don't imagine that would do you much good."

For a while the personification seemed to consider the angel's words. "Can I stay here?"

Aziraphale gaped, horrifying visions of book disintegration and silver snuffbox corrosion at once filling his mind at the thought of the fourth Horseperson residing in the shop for any period of time. The area of carpet around the armchair was already starting to change colour from 'slightly weathered green' to 'sort of greyish brown'. "Um… well… I really don't think that that would be a very good…." He stumbled to a verbal halt as the entity's face fell and his gaze grew even more sadly distant, filling the angel with a sense of overwhelming guilt. "What I mean is that it might not be the best idea for you to stay here exactly, but I will find somewhere safe – well, safe-ish at least – for you to recover."

The look of relief in the personification's eyes gave the angel a warm glow that in all truth probably wasn't quite warranted. Still, having promised to find Pollution somewhere safe to stay, he was now obligated to do just that.

His first thought was to book the personification a hotel room, but was hesitant to do so owning to the fact that a) it would be irresponsible to knowingly place the embodiment of environmental catastrophe in building inhabited by large numbers of humans; and b) would entail a level of expenditure that would almost certainly preclude him from acquiring any new, er, stock for quite a while.

His second thought was to acquire a house – preferably one as far away from any major river, sites of great natural beauty or nuclear power stations as possible – in which the wounded Horseperson could stay; but again, this would require him not only to forego acquiring any new books, but to sell some of his existing stock. He could not after all in good conscience try to rent anywhere given the likely damage the property would suffer.

His third – and most reluctant – thought was to ask a favour of an old enemy/friend/occasionally-more-than-frie nd.

In the end however it was the last of these foreseeable alternatives which seemed the most sensible and/or none morally dubious and the angel found himself reaching once again for the telephone.

----------

When the call came, the demon Crowley was in the process of enjoying a quiet evening in with a passable bottle of red wine, a more than passable Indian takeaway and the intention of inciting yet another Livejournal flamewar. He had originally planned to go out for dinner with a few acquaintances from one of the capital's most infamous PR firms, but a raid on the company's offices earlier that day by Interpol, owing to concerns about the company's 'Colombian connection', meant that most of the aforementioned acquaintances would be spending the foreseeable future in the custody of the Metropolitan Police.

With a small sigh he temporarily abandoned the highly inflammatory post he was working on and reached for his mobile phone, surprised to recognise the number flashing on the screen as that belonging to Aziraphale. Usually, when the wine had flowed a bit too freely and they ended up in positions such as the (moderately kinky) one they had the previous Wednesday, they kept their distance from each other for a  
month or so, until the level of awkwardness that any meeting might induce had waned to bearable levels and new completely unrelated conversational topics had had chance to develop. It was therefore a little strange that the angel should get in touch with him so soon after such an encounter. Hoping that nothing serious had happened to his mortal enemy cum best friend, he pressed the answer button.

"Aziraphale?"

_"Ah, hello there, Crowley. I was wondering if…if…. Well, you see, I've got a very slight problem…. It's…. Well…."_

"For G— Someone's sake just spit it out." In retrospect this probably wasn't the best phrase to use given the context in which he'd utilised it the previous Wednesday; however, Aziraphale's conversational dithering was making him slightly edgy.

_"It's just that Pollution's over here and—"_

"Hang on a minute, just to be clear, are you talking about Pollution as in the Horseman of the Apocalypse here?" Crowley said, cutting him off.

_"Yes, he's very sick."_

"Sick!" Despite the fact that the angel wasn't presently able to watch his reaction to this statement, the demon couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. He'd had a few encounters with the personification in the past, some rather more friendly than others, and he just couldn't imagine anything that could possibly render him ill. "How in the name of Ozzy Osbourne did _that_ happen?"

_"It seems that he had a run in with one of young Adam's friends."_

"Oh?"

_"Unfortunately, Adam's still angry about the injuries his young friend sustained and point blank refused to do anything to help."_

"Ah."

_"So my, er… 'guest' needs somewhere to recuperate."_

"Well, I'm pretty sure there are plenty of nice abandoned, asbestos-filled factories in the London area," he said flippantly, despite the vague inkling that Aziraphale was about to ask him to do something he wouldn't like. "Or if he wants a country getaway there's always that new landfill in Wiltshire."

_"Somewhere warm and safe."_ The inkling got stronger.

"He could try a Travel Day Inn – though that might not do to well on the _safe_ side. Did I tell you about the time I got electrocuted at the one in Leeds?"

"I was hoping that you might allow us to stay at your flat for a little while."

Oh, now this was just ridiculous. "_My flat!_ What the hell's wrong with your place."

_"It's the books, dear boy. He's having the most dreadful effect on the books."_

"And you don't think I've got any irreplaceable valuables around here that I wouldn't want getting tarnished, corroded, poisoned or irradiated?"

_"Well, yes, but you have got rather fewer of them."_ There was a hint of pleading in his voice. _"And you could always put them in storage over here."_

"No, absolutely not. I refuse to let that thing anywhere near my property."

_"Honestly Crowley, you materialise most of your possessions from raw firmament yourself anyway."_

"Look angel, read my lips—."

_"How am I supposed to do that, you're on the other end of the telephone line?"_ The puzzlement in the angel's voice suggested that this was a genuine question as a opposed to deliberate pedantry.

"The answer's no, Aziraphale," said Crowley.

On the other end of the line, the angel gave a heavy sigh. _"I do wish it hadn't come to this; however, I'm afraid I'm going to have to bring up the subject of that favour you owe me."_

"What favour?" the demon demanded, his stomach giving a slightly queasy churn of anticipation.

_"Recall if you will, dear boy, that little situation with Belphegor and that imp of his a century ago."_

The demon inwardly cursed. He'd forgotten that he still owed the angel big time for his help in getting rid of those particular unwelcome house guests: and, well, a minion of Hell he may be, but he was still a demon of his word, and he'd promised – sometime during the three day drinking session that had followed – to return the favour one day.

"Fine," he said grudgingly. "You can bring him over here. But you're completely responsible for him… And I'm leaving the houseplants at your place."

He could almost picture the beam of gratitude on the angel's face. _"Oh Crowley you are a good—"_

"Hey, watch it"

_"A splendid chap."_

Crowley gave a long suffering sigh. "I'll be there to pick you up in half an hour," he said, pressing the 'end call' button before the angel could continue to thank him profusely.

It looked like great Livejournal cross-comm flame war instigation was going to have wait for a while.

----------

After around twenty-five minutes of trying to keep the contents of his back room away from Pollution's curious hands and continually banishing the litter that seemed be accumulating around the personification's feet to the waste paper basket, Aziraphale was rather relieved when Crowley pulled up outside the shop. To the angel's surprise however, when he went outside to greet the demon, he found he had not arrived in his beloved Bentley, but a brand new, gunmetal grey Aston Martin.

"I 'borrowed' it from an acquaintance of mine," said Crowley, anticipating the angel's query. "Didn't think I'd let Pollution anywhere near the Bentley, did you? Where is he anyway?"

"The back room," said Aziraphale, moving to help the demon unload his frightened and disoriented plants from the back seat that this model of automobile wasn't actually supposed to have and take them into the shop.

Once inside, the demon's nose wrinkled in exaggerated disgust as soon as he entered the back room.

"You stink," were his first words to the personification, slumped in the chair.

"_Crowley_," Aziraphale chided.

Pollution however merely stared at the demon vacantly.

"Bloody Manchester, you weren't joking when you said he was ill," said Crowley. "I mean, I know he usually looks a bit out of it, but this, well…."

"Have you encountered him many times before?" said Aziraphale, slightly surprised that the demon seemed so casually familiar with the Horseperson.

Crowley winced in an almost imperceptible manner while Pollution gave a little rasping laugh, seeming to rise a little from the stupor he'd lapsed into. "Before my banishment, he sometimes used to help me with my artistry."

"Oh come on," said Crowley, at once looking rather affronted. "I was not _helping_ you, we just happened to occasionally have coinciding interests."

At this protestation Aziraphale couldn't help but feel a little… disappointed in the demon. He knew it was a silly sentiment – after all, while Crowley was a splendid and frequently entertaining chap in many ways, he _was_ a diabolic agent. However, he had thought that he would have been above getting involved in the activities of any of the three lesser Horsepersons.

"Anyway," the demon continued, "do you want to help him to the car? I need to have a word with the plants in private."

Having gleaned a reasonable idea of the kind of things that the demon said to his plants to keep them it that wonderfully verdant condition over the last few years, Aziraphale was only too happy to be out of the way while the poor, unfortunate, trembling things had the fear of Crowley put into them. He was rather less happy however to have to help the grimy, foul smelling personification out of the chair and half-support half-carry him outside to the car, especially given the way Pollution's slippery hands seemed wont to slide about in a rather overly familiar manner. After settling him into the back passenger seat the angel stood waiting for Crowley to emerge from the shop; which he did after around ten minutes with a mildly alarming smirk on his face.

"Honestly, my dear, the way you treat those poor things is truly abominable."

"What? I was just giving them a little pep talk," said Crowley, slithering into the driver's seat. "Besides," he added, as Aziraphale got in, "I am _supposed_ to err on the side of abominable."

To his credit Aziraphale managed to refrain from pointing out that Crowley's history of 'abomination' was chequered at best.

There was a small, breathless laugh from the back seat. "If you wanted to be truly abominable you should just burn them. They'd give off the most wonderful scent if you doused them in petrol first."

The demon glowered. "Nobody asked you for your opinion," he snapped, shooting a red light and making an obscene gesture at the white van driver who honked at him in annoyance at the resulting near-collision.

Aziraphale, glancing in the rear view mirror, saw that Pollution seemed oddly wounded by the retort: face falling and eyes drifting further into vacancy.

For the remainder of the journey an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by Crowley's sporadic outbursts at other road users, settled between the three. Ending only when the Aston Martin pulled into the private car park where the demon usually kept his Bentley and came to a halt three spaces down from Crowley's pride and joy.

"Don't you think that you ought to change the car back to normal," said Aziraphale, opening the rear door that hadn't been on the automobile until just over an hour ago and helping Pollution out of the vehicle.

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. "Leave it. The owner's a jumped up wanker with more money than sense and a habit of backing out of agreements. " The annoyance in the demon's voice at this last bit was palpable. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Aziraphale. In addition to being a certified wanker, he's also a nasty piece of work who frequently enjoys beating the crap out of under-aged prostitutes."

For a moment Aziraphale was torn. He really shouldn't be aiding and abetting the wanton alteration of private property by diabolic forces; but there were some people who were unpleasant enough to require a short, sharp and mind-bending shock to the system.

In the end the way forward became clear and with a wave of his hand, Aziraphale banished the marks that Pollution had left, turned the sleek, luxurious beige leather seating to fuzzy tartan felt, materialised several pairs of fluffy dice onto the dashboard and wished a flurry of post-it notes – each bearing a choice quote from the New Testament – to stick to the interior.

When Crowley muttered something under his breath about 'angelic bastards' he pretended not to hear: even if he did experience a tiny and rather guilty twinge of pleasure at the note of admiration in his voice.

"Come on, angel," said the demon. "Let's get inside. It's bloody freezing down here."

Crowley's flat turned out to have changed somewhat since last time Aziraphale had had occasion to visit the demon's residence. The living room was still dominated by the enormous sofa (the sight of which inspired a mild flush to rise in the angel's cheeks as he briefly recalled what had occurred on said sofa during the aforementioned last visit, after a friendly, drunken arm over the shoulder had led to something more than friendly), but most of the other furniture had been replaced and all of the technological gadgetry radically updated.

"You've redecorated, I see," he said, uncertain as to where best to place Pollution: whom he'd been forced to pick up and carry after the entity's legs had buckled. The angel had an inkling that Crowley might just get a little testy if he were to set his burden down on the pristine, white leather of the sofa.

The demon gave a shrug. "It was getting dated."

"Conspicuous consumption how I love thee," mumbled Pollution into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, where his head was presently resting. An action that caused the angel to shift in discomfort as warm, moist breath hit his bare skin.

Clearly noting his predicament, Crowley made twisty hand gesture and a medium sized Italian daybed appeared in a patch of spare floor space; and it was with a grateful smile that the angel lowered the personification onto the newly manifested item of furniture. As he came into contact with the brocade fabric Pollution squirmed in a way that would, had he been human, have had a decidedly erotic feel to it.

"It never breaks down, you know, all that plastic," Pollution said, to nobody in particular, eyes unfocussed. "It chokes and strangles everything that tries to grow. And all of those by-products, so perfect and sweet tasting."

"Weirdo." Crowley shook his head. "If you want to clean yourself up the bathroom's through the hall, first on the right." He waved his hand in the direction of the living room door.

Aziraphale looked down at himself. His coat was smeared with dark, oily marks, which appeared to be eating away at the material of the garment and there was a burning sensation starting to irritate his neck where the personification's breath had come into contact with it. A bath definitely sounded like a good idea. However, given that the personification's condition seemed to be gradually deteriorating from lost and dazed to outright delirious, he was loath to leave him unsupervised.

"Will you stay with him while I clean myself up a bit?" he asked.

The demon rolled his eyes. "Not a chance. I've got better things to do than sit around watching him zone out."

"You do?"

"Yeah, getting a good night's shuteye for one."

"It's only ten past eight."

"And I'm bloody tired."

Aziraphale sighed and reminded himself that Crowley _was_ a demon, before waving his hand and banishing as much of the toxic mess as he could from his clothing and person. "Then I'll stay."

"Fine," said Crowley. "But I doubt he's going to spontaneously combust just because you took your eyes off him for a second." With that the demon headed into his bedroom without another word.

"Good night, Crowley," he called out, as the demon shut the door.

There was a muffled utterance from the other side that could have either been 'Yeah right, angel' or 'Night, angel'. Aziraphale hoped it was the latter. 


	2. Chapter 2

As the demon forcefully shut the bedroom door the entity known as Pollution began to writhe feverishly.

It was not a calculated act, designed to make the angel blush a little at the very faint – and quite unintended – sparks of arousal this induced in his own material form (though this was the inevitable result), but rather one born out of the sudden surge in temperature that flowed through him, causing his body to shift about in a futile search for a comfortable position and his thoughts to fracture and fragment.

Had he retained any mental coherence the personification would quite possibly have started to wonder if the universe was delivering some sort of payback for the whole 'global warming' thing.

As it was, however, images and disconnected thoughts flittered through his mind, appearing and then dissipating without rhyme or reason: a snapshot of Chernobyl followed by the memory of the day the first disposable plastic shopping bag had fluttered away in the breeze followed by a flash of recollection of a time before he'd had a name to call his own.

The only external stimulus that penetrated his awareness was a quiet, uncertain voice that spoke hesitant reassurances and a cool hand that brushed against his brow. It was strangely comforting.

----------

When Crowley awoke the winter sun was streaming through the bedroom window, a pigeon was cooing on the other side of the window pane… and the stench of petrol was filling the flat.

For one panicked moment he thought that Hastur and Ligur had finally caught up with him and were about to exact revenge for that whole business with the holy water and answer-phone by discorporating him in the most horribly painful way possible. Thankfully, said moment passed rather quickly as he recalled the events of the previous evening. Truth be told he didn't really mind having Aziraphale around the place. He really rather liked spending time around his stuffy, angelic counterpart; and, if he was entirely honest with himself (which often wasn't one of his stronger points), he'd concede that he also really rather liked showing said stuffy, angelic counterpart some of the strange things that he could do with his tongue during the occasions when they'd both exceeded the level of inebriation needed to relieve them of inhibitions and good sense. Pollution though, that was another matter entirely. Despite having 'worked' in close contact with the entity more than a couple of times, the pale and unsettlingly pretty Horseman gave him a landfill sized case of the creeps.

With a groan he pried himself from the bed, wished on a pair of black boxer shorts (it did not, after all, really do to scandalise Aziraphale _too_ much this early in the day) and stepped out into his living room. To his relief the room still appeared to be mostly intact, though the floor around the daybed did seem to have noticeably tarnished. However, the form lying upon the – in Crowley's opinion – overly florid brocade cushions was looking a tad, well, critical. Pollution was on his back, shivering violently, sweating profusely, taking gulps of air and staring fixedly at the ceiling. More worrying though was Aziraphale, who was sitting hunched over on the floor next to the ailing entity and looking tired, uncharacteristically dishevelled and just a tad unwell.

"He's not become infectious, has he?" the demon said, feeling mildly alarmed at the way the angel didn't immediately entreat him to 'go and put some clothes on'.

"Don't be silly, Crowley," Aziraphale replied. "He's Pollution not Pestilence."

"What I mean is that you're looking a bit rough."

"Well, last night was rather a trial." The angel gave a weary sigh. "He got considerably worse during the small hours and I really wasn't quite sure what to do for the best. I mean, I can hardly try any sort of divine healing on him. Goodness knows what the consequences of _that_ might be; but I really do think that I should be able to do something other than just watch him."

Crowley shrugged uneasily. "I don't see much you can do." He wrinkled his nose as the scent of refined hydrocarbons was joined by the smell of burning rubbish. "Though I would recommend giving him a good wash."

"Oh no, I couldn't do that. We don't know what clean water would do to him," said Aziraphale. "Besides," he added. "There really wouldn't be any morally acceptable way for me to dispose of it afterwards. I could hardly just pour it down the sink, after all."

"Break it back down into raw firmament," suggested Crowley.

"Yes, but it isn't quite as simple as that, dear chap. Normal pollutants I could, but anything coming directly from him… well, that appears to be a different matter entirely." To illustrate this point the angel held out the lapel of tweed jacket, which still bore several large stains. "I couldn't get rid of them."

"Oh shit." Crowley groaned as he contemplated what the eventual irreparable damage to his flat might be. He was going to need new floorboards for a start. "So you're just going to wait here, with him, until he either dies or gets better."

"Is it possible for them to 'die', do you think?" said Aziraphale, at once looking deeply alarmed.

"G— who knows," said Crowley, doing his best not to entertain thoughts of what horrible occurrences might transpire if one of the Four expired in his living room. "For all we know he could be stuck like this forever."

"Surely Adam wouldn't allow that… would he?"

The demon gave another shrug. "He's a sixteen year old boy who's upset his friend got injured. They're unpredictable at best."

For a few moments the angel stared glumly at his charge. "I don't suppose you'd mind taking over here for a while?" he said, tone suggestive of hope rather than expectation. "Only I have three good deeds to induce and a moderate burst of divine inspiration to deliver this afternoon."

"Sorry, too much on today," lied Crowley, who'd planned to spend the morning superglueing coins and other valuables to the pavement and then watching the inevitable – and hilarious – demonstration of rampant human greed that would proceed.

"Oh well, if you're sure." The angel really did look tired.

"Whereabouts were you planning to manifest?" said Crowley, feeling the first nibblings of a guilt that would, were it somehow become public knowledge, have made him a laughing stock in Pandemonium, Dis and most of the underworld's other little enclaves of demonic habitation.

"Balham for the divine inspiration, but the good deeds could take place anywhere."

"I suppose I could take care of them for you. I was going to be tempting around that area anyway."

"Would you? Dear boy that would be marvellous." The expression on Aziraphale's face was one of immediate relief. It was something that Crowley knew shouldn't give him that tiny burst of happiness that it did. Thankfully, for his demonic pride the angel managed to refrain from calling him 'a good chap'.

----------

Pollution was cold again. The hot, sticky, feverish feeling had started to fade sometime just before dawn, with some linearity returning to the personification's thoughts. However, the unbearable heat had almost immediately been replaced by shivering, cold sweat and rigidity. Every muscle was now aching and every breath painful: a fact that was deeply problematic given that his form currently seemed to be determined to try and oxygenate itself.

As the morning wore on he became dimly aware of some sort of exchange going on between the angel who had taken him in from the cold and his demonic counterpart; and found himself feeling a vague sort of distress about the fact that the angel's attention had been diverted to somebody else.

Thus it was that as the demon departed the angel returned to him, fussing and fretting, the personification experienced a momentary and very faint warm glow that had little do with the fact that his essential nature was eating away at the alien human components that had been forced upon him.

"We should just be glad that he didn't find out that you almost spontaneously combusted last night," the angel murmured after a few minutes had passed. "I'm not sure that I could convince him to allow you to remain here if he knew about _that_."

"I'm cold again now," said Pollution with a small snort.

The angel made a small motion with his left hand and the personification found himself lying under a blanket of bubble wrap.

"You're being kind to me," he said, grateful as it was possible for a being such as himself to be, yet a little perplexed as to why. When he'd made his way to the alley behind the angel's shop the previous day he'd only done so in the hope that he could perhaps attempt to blackmail him into lending his assistance, or at the very most, play on his angelic nature enough to get him to grudgingly try and sway Adam Young into removing the affliction. He hadn't expected any sort of genuine kindness, yet the angel had given it with only a modest amount of reserve.

"It _is_ my job."

"No, I don't think it is. Your kind isn't required to tend to creatures like me."

"Well, that might be true in terms of what Crowley would call my 'Official Mission Statement' or some other such newfangled phrase, but one really has to take into account the spirit as opposed to the letter of the heavenly mandate, doesn't one?"

Even in his present state Pollution was capable of picking up on the note of uncertainty in the angel's voice. It was the same tone that junior lab assistants tended to use when questioning whether the company's policy of avoiding basic safety checks was really justifiable.

"Thank you," he said, before closing his eyes and settling into a restless slumber.

----------

Feeling acutely annoyed at what had become of what loosely passed as his domestic arrangements, Crowley went out and did Aziraphale's job while the angel remained in the demon's flat and fretted over the incapacitated Horseman.

The same thing happened the day after (two brief moments of divine ecstasy in Lambeth and three affirmations of faith in Camden) and the day after that (four guilt trips in Kings Cross and a very small miracle in Greenwich), with the demon returning to his Mayfair flat each night to find his friend still sitting at the ailing personification's side. It was, to his mind at least, utterly ridiculous that an angelic being should expend so much emotional energy on a creature that a) was the embodiment of environmental desecration; and b) couldn't be healed by any of his ethereal powers: but the fact was that when it came down to it both he and Aziraphale _were_ pretty ridiculous examples of their designated sides.

"Don't you think that this is all a bit too much?" he asked each night as the angel tucked into the meal Crowley had delivered from the best restaurants in the immediate area (a service for which Aziraphale insisted they pay).

"It's in my nature to care for all of the beings on this earth, Crowley," Aziraphale chided each time. A statement to which Crowley could not help but retort that 'caring for all the beings on this earth' would sometimes include, say, Hastur and Ligur. A move that had Aziraphale looking a tad cross for a few moments before pointing out that there was a difference between 'caring' and 'suicidal stupidity'.

Crowley managed to keep himself from pointing out that voluntarily interacting with a powerful and destructive entity whom one has helped – albeit in a very minor way all things considered – to vanquish would seemed to fall into the latter category. If he applied logical reasoning too aggressively he knew that the angel could and would one day retaliate in kind.

As for Pollution, well, he just seemed to lie on the daybed in varying states of consciousness, occasionally stare at the state of the art television and wax poetic about various forms of environmental decay at sporadic intervals. He was, quite frankly, driving Crowley up the wall: not least because he was taking up practically all of Aziraphale's attention. It wasn't jealousy as such… well, no that wasn't quite true, being resentful of the fact that the interloper had come into his flat and orchestrated a situation where the only individual on the face of the earth who could really understand him was too preoccupied for so much as a quick drink very probably constituted jealousy; however, it was, to his mind, perfectly reasonable jealousy.

When he returned home on the evening of the fourth day (just two subtle urgings to forgive and forget in Westminster that afternoon) he found Aziraphale and a marginally more lucid Pollution watching what looked like some kind of terminally dull art history programs on the television. To which, after giving Crowley a rather – to Crowley's mind at least – cursory hello, the angel immediately returned his attention.

"I really don't think much of this modern rubbish," Aziraphale said, shaking his head disapprovingly, as the painfully pretentious presenter talked about a piece of 1990s installation art that consisted of a busted up Ford Cortina and a Tesco bag filled with multicoloured pieces of polystyrene.

"I think it's beautiful," said Pollution.

"Well, yes, I suppose you would," the angel conceded, "but that really doesn't make it a meaningful work of art."

"What does?"

"Erm… well, that's a good question, I… Oh, look at that picture." In a transparent attempt not to have to answer this question, Aziraphale gestured to a Lowry on which the camera was now zooming in.

Pollution gave a happy, if still slightly wheezy, sigh. "Wonderful times," he said. "No Clean Air Act to stop the beauty blossoming from the chimneys."

The angel shook his head. "But can't you in any way appreciate the composition?"

The personification considered this for a moment.

"Apart from that of the smoke and chimneys, I mean," Aziraphale quickly added, clearly anticipating what Pollution's first answer would be.

"We have a different sense of aesthetics, angel."

Crowley gritted his teeth. For some reason this exchange caused a stab of resentment to twist in his gut. Aziraphale was… was… practically _bantering_ with another supernatural being and Crowley didn't like it one bit.

"Now that one's wonderful," said Pollution, as an abstract by a lesser known 1950s artist appeared on the screen.

Aziraphale pulled a face. "Oh, come along, it's nothing but big swirls of different shades of grey."

"That's why it's so perfect. It reminds me of my work."

To Crowley's extreme disgruntlement, Aziraphale did not frown and launch into a denouncement of Pollution's inherent nature, but gave a sigh that was almost _fond_. "Well, I suppose you are what you are."

This, as far as Crowley was concerned, really was the last straw; and when, after yet another dinner sourced from Mayfair's finest, Aziraphale made his nightly request that Crowley take on the next day's Pollution watching while he went to check on the book shop, the demon, much to the angel's obvious surprise (and after pointing out that the entity seemed to be mostly recovered for G— Mick Jagger's sake and was probably now more than capable of fending for himself), said yes.

----------

Aziraphale was both surprised and pleased by Crowley's acquiescence on the matter of taking his turn at tending to the still-wounded Horseman. Not being totally oblivious (at least not without first engaging some heavy duty 'Fingers in the ears' wilful denial), he was quite aware that the demon had not taken on the task for wholly altruistic reasons. However, he couldn't help but experience a sort of warm glow when he thought of his diabolic companion wanting to be the focus of Aziraphale's attention.

It was a thought that made him feel guilty in much the same way that his increasingly frequent and sometimes uncontrollable daydreams about his and the demon's more… _intimate_ encounters (after which the angel never failed to mentally exaggerated the level of intoxication that he had needed to get him to engage in such shameful and indulgent behaviour); and one that he tried to push from his mind as he sat in the back room, hoping that the young lady who'd just walked in through the shop's front door would take the absence of a visible proprietor as a sign that she should give up on her quest to make a purchase.

Turing the page of _Great Expectations_, he looked at the pot of African violets on the windowsill, which was practically oozing contentment at the temporary reprieve it had been given from Crowley's brutal nurturing. As much as he'd come to accept Crowley's demonic inclinations over the years, he had never been able to shed his distaste at the way the demon treated his poor, unfortunate houseplants. He just hoped that Pollution's presence in the demon's flat wouldn't have any sort of long term effect that might harm the poor things' growth when they were returned.

As the young lady in the main area of the shop began to wonder whether she should try and pluck up the courage to knock on the door to the back room, the angel sighed and decided that there were some benefits to spending the day with Pollution. From his interactions with the personification, Aziraphale had gleaned that he didn't seem to have any real interest in literature, though the angel had a feeling that the Horseman would probably have paroxysms of joy were he to read a lengthy poetic of some facet of his work. The personification, Aziraphale had found, had a definite lyrical streak.

The angel gave a small and ever so slightly fond smile as he recalled how Pollution had the previous day described board of directors of Chemipharm International as 'a poisonous concoction of expensively educated effluent' (he'd been complimenting them of course). It was funny really how he'd grown strangely attached to the entity over the last few days: he wasn't sure why. Pollution, after all, didn't have the spark of goodness that Crowley liked to pretend that he himself didn't possess. Though, when it came down to it, Pollution didn't really have any spark of badness beyond his designated and inescapable function either.

Aziraphale supposed that it might have something to do with his own innate angelic desire to care for someone: and Pollution had, despite the fact that of the Four he was the most seemingly disconnected from humanity, appeared to be welcoming and grateful for the care he had provided. He just hoped that Crowley wouldn't be too neglectful of the recuperating personification, or – Aziraphale frowned at the thought – perceive Pollution's writhing, squirming and craving for physical contact as some form of flirtation. The entity was, if one overlooked the filth currently caking him, in possession of a very physically attractive form (even if to Aziraphale's mind he could do with a little more meat on his bones) after all.

Shaking his head, he told himself not to be silly, even if the demon did get the 'wrong impression' as it were, Pollution was highly unlikely to want to well… do anything _sexual_ with him. The Horsepersons just weren't constructed that way. They were inhuman and hence without normal human desires.

This was at least what the angel tried to mentally repeat as an unpleasant little voice in his head gave a quiet, but rather smug: _"Ah, but aren't you supposed to be 'without normal human desires' too."_

----------

While Aziraphale was at the shop, fretting over what might or might not be happening at Crowley's flat, the demon was sitting at his computer, attempting to reset the online scene for the Flamewar of Mass Defriending. Alas, the scent of burning plastic and old rubbish that was currently lying thick upon the air was really quite distracting and Crowley found himself attempting, in vain, to banish the headache that the awful smell seemed to be inducing.

With a glower, he got up from the desk in his office and walked into his living room; where Pollution had moved from the – now unrecognisably tarnished – daybed to Crowley's precious sofa and was staring raptly at a news report about an oil spill somewhere on the Welsh coast.

"So beautiful," the personification murmured to himself, paying no heed to Crowley's presence. "So absolutely fucking beautiful."

"Feeling a nice warm glow are you?" Crowley said, in a none too friendly manner.

Pollution just smiled at him. "You should be grateful for this one, Crowley. Surely you can find a way to take credit for the wrath and despair and industrial cover-ups this is going to lead to."

The demon's glower intensified. It was true that this was exactly the sort of thing he would report to Hell as a success. However, he really didn't like this bout of incisiveness that Pollution seemed to be having. But then, the personification's propensity to gazing dreamily into space, did perhaps sometimes act to mask the powers of observation that came along with his position.

"When you helped me with the Rompton Executive Housing Development you were never this hostile."

Crowley snorted. "Yeah, more fool me."

"You seemed to enjoy it at the time."

The demon groaned in embarrassment as he recalled the last day of _that_ particular project, on which the tempter had been tempted by the allure of the youngest Horseperson's admittedly beautiful form and…. He visibly cringed as he was assailed by the memory of being stripped, coaxed to the floor of the woodland clearing that was destined to become a three bedroomed detached with en-suite, double garage and room for a conservatory and taken from behind – with mild to moderate roughness – by the personification. This in itself would not have been a particularly humiliating recollection (after all, the pleasures of the flesh were a standard part of the tempter's repertoire), if it hadn't been for the fact that just before climax he'd looked up to see six of the workmen from one of the nearby builds having a break-time cigarette just outside the clearing, each of them sniggering like there was no tomorrow. As a general rule Crowley had no objections to the occasional bit of exhibitionism; however, he couldn't help but think that it was only ever enjoyable when one a) knew one was being watched and could avoid silly facial expressions accordingly; and b) chose one's audience. This on the other hand had just been utterly humiliating, even if he had visited an embarrassing and very itchy revenge on each of the sniggering workmen.

"Look," he said, not particularly keen on the idea of pursuing this line of conversation any further, "could you do something about that bloody awful stench…. And get off the sofa; you're going to stain it beyond repair."

With a decided pout the personification slid from the sofa onto the floor, revealing a dull grey – but hopefully banishable – imprint on the white leather and began to exude Pinefresh of such a chemical intensity that Crowley found himself trying to seal his nose, mouth and eyes against the burn. Worse than the irritation however was the fact that the stench of toxic pine forest was not so much supplanting the scent of burning plastic and rotten rubbish so much overlaying it.

"What I meant," said Crowley, through clenched teeth, "is that I want you to get rid of the smell altogether."

"I can't."

"Of course you can," he snapped, "you don't normally go around stinking like this, do you? Naturally predisposed to invisibility you might be, but there isn't a human with a functioning sense of smell on the planet who could overlook this."

"I could under normal circumstances," said Pollution, an unpleasant element of smugness creeping into his tones, "but at the moment I don't really have much control over my form's functioning."

Crowley considered the situation: the Horseman was probably telling the truth, yet there was no way that Crowley could put up with the stink for much longer.

In the end he decided that there was only one thing for it.

"You're taking a shower."

"What?" The look that Pollution gave him was pure poison.

Crowley snapped his fingers and a transparent plastic case containing several bottles of brightly coloured liquid appeared in his left hand. "It'll give you a chance to degrade the local water supply."

For a moment he thought that Pollution would refuse to cooperate. However, after a few seconds the Horseman picked himself up off the floor and allowed Crowley to usher him into the bathroom.

"Er… you might want to take that boiler suit off first," he said, raising an eyebrow as Pollution stepped into the space-aged shower fully attired.

Pollution looked at him questioningly.

"Oh, for G— fuck's sake, I'm not hitting on you. I just want to banish the sodding things somewhere where I don't have to smell or look at them."

The personification folded his arms.

Crowley sighed. "Look, I promise to banish them somewhere where they'll mar the view."

Acquiescing, Pollution began to remove his soiled and ragged apparel. He did this efficiently: with no hint of coquettishness, or coyness, or seductiveness, or any other "-ness" that was known for inciting lust in the hearts, minds and loins of the unwary. Yet for some unfathomable and utterly stupid reason the sight of the personification's nude form caused the demon's blood to rush in a distinctly southerly direction.

Chiding himself for being thus affected by a pretty, slender body that could probably be found on a million other far less toxic individuals, the demon forcibly redirected his gaze to the sleek, chrome controls for the shower.

"Well, that's the heat control," he said, gesturing in a decidedly agitated manner towards one dial. "And, um, that dials for the intensity of the flow… and that thing here… well, I'm not quite sure what that one does, so it's probably better to avoid messing about with it. Um, so now you know how it all works – apart from the thing that you don't – and I'll be in the office doing work… and things."

As he turned to leave a dirty hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Aren't you going to help me? I've never done this before."

Crowley honestly wasn't sure whether this was a really clumsily orchestrated come-on or a literal enquiry and Pollution's expression of mild amusement combined with moderate curiosity didn't give him any clue.

"I'm sure you can manage by yourself," he said, slithering out of the personification's grip.

And with that he fled to his study, whereupon he collapsed into his desk chair, exhaled deeply and cursed the fact that the only place in the flat where he could get a cold shower was currently occupied by the being responsible for him currently being, to put it bluntly, 'hard as a rock'. He really should have known better than to give Aziraphale the day off. This whole Pollution supervising thing was ridiculous: especially given that the entity was now perfectly capable of getting up, walking around and possibly maybe making sexual propositions to demons. Still, he had given Aziraphale his word and the angel would doubtless be most disgruntled to return from the shop and find that he'd thrown the personification out. Not that he was in any way confident that he'd actually be able to forcibly eject Pollution from his property; in fact, he suspected that it was deeply unlikely.

Opting not to take care of his present state of arousal in the usual manner owing to the fact that getting himself off while thinking of Pollution would open a whole can of awkwardness, he mentally recited the briefing on administrative restructuring Dagon had delivered via the ten o'clock news fifteen years ago. It worked, of course, even if he did start to lose the will to exist after five minutes.

Having managed to hold back the tide of idiotic lust, he switched on the computer and proceeded to go about the task of sending out virus ridden spam emails. It was an activity Crowley always found therapeutic, and he was just a little disgruntled when a knock on the door interrupted his endeavour.

Cursing, he got up, left the office and went to open the front door.

A move he promptly regretted when he saw who was standing outside.

"Ello Crawly," said the short squat being, with a horrible toothy grin. "Bet you thought you wouldn't be seeing me again, didn't you."

The demon stared in horror

"Just look at the little Creep, will you," sneered his taller, thinner, but no less repulsive companion. "He's gaping like a bleedin' fish."

As Hastur and Ligur leered at him, Crowley desperately tried to think of a way out of the situation. When, after five long and deeply horrible seconds, he couldn't think of one, he decided that the only thing he could do was play for time and desperately hope that an idea occurred to him.

"Er, hi guys, long time no see. How are things downstairs? Minions not getting you down, I hope. Of course…."

"Save it, snake," snarled Hastur. "You're coming with us."

With that the diabolic duo lunged at him.

Knowing that unpleasantness was imminent, he stumbled backwards, a mantra of Ohshitohshitohshit running through his mind. As Ligur reached out to grasp him however a most peculiar thing happened. The two arch demons froze and, with horrified looks on their faces began to do a very accurate impression of a chronic asthmatic in the middle of a severe attack.

Turning round to flee while he still had a miraculous chance he saw Pollution: naked, wet and soapy, leaning against the wall and gazing serenely at Hastur and Ligur.

"What the…?"

"I think they're going now."

As the two Dukes of Hell headed unsteadily for the stairs, Crowley gaped at Pollution.

"What did you do to them?"

The Horseman gave a happy smile. "Toxic dust from the tombs of saints."

_Shit_ Crowley took a step away from the entity, fearing that a radioactive holy water shower could be imminent.

"I wouldn't do anything like that to you," said Pollution with a breathy laugh that was almost devoid of the wheeze that had afflicted him for days. "I like you too much."

"You do?" said Crowley, not sure quite how to take this statement.

Pollution closed the gap between them in a fluid and slightly predatory way. "You entertain me, even if you do resent me: and sometimes you have the most wonderful ideas for things for me to do."

The demon gulped as a pair of wet arms wrapped around his waist and a lean body pressed against his front; positioning itself in such a manner as to cause maximum distraction.

"I've heard you can do interesting things with your tongue," murmured Pollution.

"Who told you that?" asked Crowley, unable to stop himself from unconsciously sliding a leg between Pollution's thighs.

"Oh, I hear things. Even your kind doesn't notice me listening sometimes."

Crowley was about to give his views on loose lipped incubi and succubae when it occurred to him that there were better things he could be doing. Even if he would regret it in an hours time

"My tongue's not the only bit of me that's interesting. Would you like a demonstration?"

Pollution gave a blissful sigh. "Oh yes, that would be wonderful."

----------

Aziraphale was fretting.

He didn't quite know what he feared the most: Crowley taking advantage of Pollution or Pollution seducing Crowley, but the fact was that, despite the fact that he kept trying keep up the mantras of 'envy is bad, envy is wrong' and 'I really am being quite silly about this whole thing' it was starting gnaw away at him.

After around forty-five minutes of valiantly fighting the urge to rush back to Crowley's flat he finally gave in. Putting Great Expectations back in its place, giving the tenacious would-be purchaser who'd been hanging around in the shop waiting for the proprietor to appear a very terse 'we're shutting for the day now' and willing the sign on the door from _open_ to _closed_, he exited the shop by the front door (now blessedly devoid of literature stalking would-be customers) and hailed the first black cab he saw.

----------

Pollution was in a state of ecstasy that he usually only associated with nuclear disasters and the most serious of toxic waste spillages.

He was lying back on the previously clean, crisp off-white duvet of Crowley's bed as the demon moved inside him: slit-pupils dilated, face flushed and breaths harsh and uneven.

With the exception of the Apocalypse that Wasn't, the Horseman had always been entertained by the demon; even if the demon didn't tend to reciprocate the emotion. However, right now he was feeling especially well disposed towards him.

"You're really dirty, you know that," said Crowley between pants, quite obviously unable to resist the allure of a really predictable pun, even now.

Pollution merely responded with a hoarse laugh.

There was, he decided, as the demon's thrusts brushed a spot that made him gasp and moan, possibly only one thing that could make this scenario any better.

----------

After an unbelievably long journey by cab and an outrageously exorbitant taxi fare, the angel found himself in the hallway just outside Crowley's flat.

He knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

He knocked again.

Once again, no answer was forthcoming.

Feeling a tad guilty, he placed his hand on the doorknob and turned.

"Hello?" he said, tentatively stepping inside.

There was no response.

Now rather concerned he cautiously entered the living room and was immediately faced with the sight of a vacated daybed.

Frowning, he took a deep breath, walked over to Crowley's bedroom door and opened.

The vision of debauchery that met his eyes caused him to freeze. Crowley and Pollution were resting, completely naked, partially entwined and covered with what appeared to be little bruises and bites

"Er… Hi Aziraphale. Wasn't expecting you back quite so early."

"Crowley, what on earth have you done to him?" he cried out, with as much moral indignation as he could muster: while attempting to desperately ignore the 'anatomical extras' that the sight of them flushed, nude and despoiled seemed to suddenly be causing to manifest.

Crowley's jaw dropped with the even more poisonous indignation of the unfairly(ish) accused. "Me? It was him that started it."

"Well, you quite obviously took advantage of him. He's ill for goodness sake."

The demon snorted. "Believe me, nobody who moves like that is at death's door."

"Azrael doesn't have a door," said Pollution, who was watching the whole exchange with interest.

"A metaphorical door," said Crowley.

"I don't know if he has one of those or not."

"Look angel." The demon gave a laboured sigh. "I really don't see what you're so up in arms about. We're both consenting, er… entities. And he's bloody well closer to my side than yours in the grand scheme of things."

"That is not the point Crowley. Besides, you're six-thousand and he's not even eighty yet." The angel folded his arms. "The fact is… fact is that, well… Oh for goodness sake Crowley, I thought you liked me _this_ way."

For several seconds Crowley just stared at him. "Oh, bloody Manchester."

On the bed, Pollution shifted around in a manner that went straight to Aziraphale's loins and caused the angel to entertain the most shameful thoughts.

"You're jealous, aren't you," said the personification in an utterly matter-of-fact manner.

Aziraphale quite literally squirmed. "Erm… I…."

The sides of Pollution's mouth quirked upwards into an amused smile. "I like you too, you know."

"What?"

"You were kind to me; and your hands felt nice when they touched my skin."

To say that this left Aziraphale dumbstruck was quite possibly the understatement of the year. Indeed, before he could gather his wits, he found a pale and rather oily hand wrapping around his wrist and pulling him downwards towards Crowley's – now somewhat dirty – sheets.

"Now, steady on," he said. "I not sure….mph"

His protestations were silenced when Crowley, obviously now catching on to what Pollution was quite clearly suggesting, pulled his mouth into a lingering and slightly apologetic kiss.

Pretty soon however the angel found himself completely forgetting that he was supposed to be protesting at all as two pairs of hands set about squeezing, undressing and generally caressing him.

"My dear boys, this is most unorthodox," he murmured, as the demon dipped his head between the angel's legs and proceeded to do the most _unusual_ things with his tongue.

Crowley, replying in as polite a way as one could whilst one's mouth was full, gave a low 'hmmm': a move that sent a jolt of pleasure right through Aziraphale's body. Pollution, for his part, merely gave a small laugh and continued to run slick hands over his chest and belly.

It all felt so good that when it was all over Aziraphale quite forgot to be thoroughly ashamed of himself.

----------

Several miles away, in a sleepy Cambridgeshire village two boys were sitting on one of the benches that bordered the village green.

"It was just so weird," said one of them, a tall and rather scruffy brown-haired young man, who still had the pallid complexion and slight gauntness of one who had recently recovered from a serious illness. "I saw this guy - he wasn't like any of the other workmen, but nobody seemed to pay attention to him – and… and I saw him take out this canister of teargas – well, that's what I assumed it was. So then I sort of ran at him, trying to stop him from throwing it. And then everything just sort of exploded and the next thing I know I wake up in that horrible plastic tent thing in the _Tropical Diseases Unit_."

His blonder and slightly shorter friend's eyes widened. "You mean it was _you_ that went for him, not the other way around?"

The scruffy young man nodded. "Yeah, it was a stupid thing to do, running at him like that, but I was just so angry." He gave a snort and a small grin. "You should have seen the look in his eyes just before I crashed into him. He was scared shitless." The grin turned to a frown. "Adam, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that I think I might have got something wrong."

"Oh, like what?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, Brian."

As Brian shrugged and launched into a description of the new Playstation game his cousin had given to him the previous day, Adam experienced the unpleasant prickling of guilt. He'd been so angry that Pollution had harmed his best friend that he hadn't considered that whole situation might have been partially caused by Brian being Brian.

Still, he thought, as his friend gave an enthusiastic monologue on what exactly one could do if his new game was put in Ultra Mega Thrill Kill Mode, it wasn't too late to put things right. All he needed to do was locate Pollution and remove the debris of the collision with Brian from his material form.

It was an easy task to spread his consciousness, locate the target entity and… blush furiously as a clear image of the being known as Pollution and what he was presently doing snapped into focus.

"Adam, what's wrong. You spaced out for a minute and then went bright red."

"It's nothing," mumbled Adam. "I just remembered something I have to do. But I think it's probably sorting itself out all right."

-

Fin


End file.
